Marijuana Monastery

Confronted by my desire to hang on to spider webs filled with our whispered wonders of the universe:

Strings tying past to present and past to present and on and on and on and on and on and never reaching the end.

And it’s true what we thought of infinity.

There’s no finality to what you say.

So I’m hanging on to the end of things as you’re cutting strings and moving toward infinity.

I’m floating here in hyper sleep. I cannot breathe. I cannot scream.

I cannot dream.

And THIS is what it feels like to be me.

Three years and nothing’s changed.

The marijuana monastery where I met the nun with the blunt and the rosary that followed me home on a long neck that didn’t remember the events of that night.

The cross pounded into my chest and Mary Mother of God was nowhere to be found.

And the beads spent the night on my lampshade until the boy smoking green with the pipe made out of leaves walked through cemeteries teetering on the edge of life and death asking me questions I’d always wondered but never knew were other’s questions too.

And the beads found their way home and I thought I had found home too, but I was naive to think home was a permanent thing.

Home is something you may be lucky enough to find but never smart enough to keep.

And I found home in his mind but he found no home in mine.

February, 2015